I slammed my locker shut.
I had to find another job soon. I always paid my housing expenses
first, but we owed the studio money, and I couldn’t take another dime from
Harry.
Freddie strode down the dim hallway, toes pointed out and walking
like a duck on a mission.
“Fuck off, Freddie. I’m leaving, and
by the way, you’re an—”
“Mister Drazen wants to see you.”
“Fuck him. He can’t summon me. I don’t work for him anymore.”
Freddie smiled like a sly cat. “Sometimes he gives the short timers
a severance if he feels bad. Nice
chunka
change.
After that, you can get the hell out if you don’t want to sleep with him. I’d
like to see him not get laid for once.”
He took a step closer. I didn’t know why he’d get close enough to
touch me, so I didn’t back away, and when he slapped my ass, I was so stunned I
didn’t move. He ended the slap with a pinch.
“What did you…?”
But he was already waddling off, elbows bent, as if someone
else’s life needed to be miserable and he was just the guy to make it so. I
stood there with my mouth open, seventy percent mad at him for being a complete
molester and thirty percent mad at myself for being too shocked to punch him in
the face.
***
I had pride. I had so much pride that heeling at Jonathan
Drazen’s
beck and call for a “
chunka
change” was the most humiliating thing I could think of doing. But there I was,
in front of his ajar door on the thirtieth floor, knocking, not because I
needed the money (which I did), and not because I wanted him to look at me like
that again (which I also did), but because I couldn’t have been the first
waitress ass-slapped, or worse, by Freddie. If Drazen wasn’t aware of Freddie’s
douchebaggery
, he needed to be.
The office looked onto the Hollywood Hills, which must have been
stunning in daylight. At night, the neighborhood was just a splash of twinkling
lights on a black canvas. He stood behind his desk, back to the window, the
room’s soft lighting a flattering glaze on the perfect skin of his forearms. He
wore a fresh pair of jeans and a white shirt. The dark wood and frosted glass
accentuated the fact his office was meant to be a comforting space, and even
though I knew the setting was manipulating me, I relaxed.
“Come on in,” he said.
I stepped onto the carpet, its softness easing the pain caused by
my high heels.
“I’m sorry I spilled on you. I’ll pay for dry cleaning, if you
want.”
“I don’t want. Sit down.” His green eyes flickered in the
lamplight. I had to admit he was stunning. His copper hair curled at the edges,
and his smile could light a thousand cities. He couldn’t have been older than
his early thirties.
“I’ll stand,” I said. I was wearing a short skirt, and judging
from the way he’d looked at me on the roof, if I sat down, I’d receive another
stare that would make me want to jump him.
“I want to apologize for Freddie,” he said. “He’s a little more
aggressive than he should be.”
“We need to talk about that,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow and came around to the front of the desk. He
wore some cologne that stole the scent of sage leaves on a foggy day: dry,
dusty, and clean. He leaned on his desk, putting his hands behind him, and I
could see the whole length of his body: broad shoulders, tight waist, and
straight hips. He looked at me again, then down to the floor. I felt as if he’d
moved his hands off of me, and at once I was thrilled and ashamed. I wasn’t
going to be intimidated or scared. I wasn’t going to let him look away from me.
If he wanted to stare, he should stare.
I placed my hands on my hips and let my body language challenge him to
put his eyes where they wanted to go, not the floor.
Because, fuck him.
“Freddie’s a douchebag.” I could tell from his expression that
was the wrong way to start. I needed to keep opinions and juicy expressions to
myself and state facts. “He said you’re going to try and sleep with me, for
one.” He smiled as if he really was going to try to sleep with me and got
caught.
“Then,” I continued, because I wanted to wipe that smile off his
gorgeous face, “he grabbed my ass.”
The smile melted as though it was an ice cube in a hot frying
pan. He took his hungry eyes off mine, a relief on one hand and a
disappointment on the other. “I was going to offer you severance.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Let me finish.”
I nodded, a sting of prickly heat spreading across my cheeks.
“The severance was in case you didn’t want to continue working
here,” he said. “Even though I can’t stand the smell of the gin you got on me,
I don’t think you should lose your job over it. But now that you told me that,
what should I do? If I give you severance, it looks like I’m paying you off.
And if I
unfire
you, it looks like I’m letting you
stay because I’m afraid of getting sued.”
“I get it,” I said. “If he said you’d try to sleep with me, then
you’ve got your own shit to hide, and nothing would bring it out better than a
lawsuit.” I waited a second to see if I could glean anything from his eyes, but
he had his business face on, so I put on my sarcasm face. “Quite a terrible
position you’re in.”
His nod told me he understood me. His position was privileged. He
got to make choices about my life based on his convenience. “What do you do,
Monica?”
“I’m a waitress.”
He smirked, looking at me full on, and I wanted to drop right
there. “That’s your circumstance. It’s not who you are. Law school, maybe?”
“Like hell.”
“Teacher, woodworker, volleyball player?” He ran the words
together quickly, and I guessed he could come up with another hundred potential
professions before he got it right.
“I’m a musician,” I said.
“I’d like to see you play sometime.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you.”
“Indeed.” He walked behind his desk. “I assume no one witnessed
this alleged ass-grab?”
“Correct.”
He opened a drawer and flipped through some files. “I hired
Freddie, and he’s my responsibility to manage. Your responsibility is to report
it to someone besides me.” He handed me a slip of paper. It was a standard U.S.
Equal Employment Opportunity Commission flyer. “The numbers are on there. File
a report. Send me a copy, please. It would protect both of us.”
I stared at the paper. Drazen could get into a lot of trouble if
enough reports were filed. I intended to tell the authorities what happened
because I couldn’t stand Freddie, but I felt a little sheepish about getting
Drazen cited or investigated.
“You’re not an asshole,” I said.
He bowed his head, and though I couldn’t see his face, I imagined
he was smiling. He took a card from his pocket and came back around the desk.
“My friend Sam owns the Stock downtown. I think it’s a better fit for you. I’ll
tell him you might call.”
When I took the card, I had an urge I couldn’t resist. I reached
my hand a little farther than I should have and brushed my finger against his.
A shot of pleasure drove through me, and his finger flicked to extend the
touch.
I had to get away from that guy as fast as possible.
CHAPTER 3.
Los Angeles weather in late September was mid-July weather
everywhere else—dog’s-mouth hot, sweat-through-your-antiperspirant hot,
car-exhaust hot. Gabby seemed better than the previous night, but Darren and I
were on our toes.
Gabby said she was going for a walk and, trying to make sure she
wasn’t alone, I suggested she and I get ice cream at the artisanal place on
Sunset.
We sat on the outside patio so the noise would mask our
conversation. I poked at my strawberry basil ice cream while she considered her
wasabi/honey longer than she might have a week ago.
“It’s good money,” she said, trying to talk me into a Thursday
night lounge job. “And no pay to play. Just cash and go home.”
“I hate those gigs. I hate being background.”
“Two hundred dollars? Come on, Monica. You don’t have to learn
any songs; one rehearsal, maybe two, and we got it.”
Gabby had spent her childhood getting her fingers slapped with a
ruler every time she made a mistake on the piano. Her playing became so perfect
she barely had to work at it. She was so compulsive her every waking moment was
spent eating, playing, or thinking about playing, so the word “rehearse”
couldn’t apply to her because it implied an artist taking time out of their day
to get something right, not a compulsive perfectionist basically breathing. She
was a genius, and in all likelihood, her genius plus her perfectionist nature
drove her depression.
“I only want to sing my own songs,” I said.
“You can spin them. Just, come on. If I don’t bring a voice on,
I’ll lose the gig, and I need it.” That hitch in her voice meant she was
swinging between desperation and emotional flatness, and it terrified me. “Mon,
I can’t wait for the next
Spoken
gig.
I’m twenty-five, and I don’t have a lot of time.
We
don’t have a lot of time. Every month goes by, and I’m nobody.
God, I don’t even have an agent. What will happen to me? I can’t take it. I
think I’ll die if I end up like Frieda
DuPree
, trying
her whole life and then she’s in her sixties and still going to band
auditions.”
“You’re not going to end up like Frieda
DuPree
.”
“I have to keep working. Every night that goes by without someone
seeing me play is a lost opportunity.”
Performance school rote bullshit. Get out and play. Keep working.
Play the odds. Teachers told poor kids they might be seen if they busted their
violins on the streets if they had to. Dream-feeders. Fuck them. Some of those
kids should have gone into accounting, and that line of shit kept them dreaming
a few too many years.
I looked at Gabby and her big blue eyes, pleading for
consideration. She was mid-anxiety attack. If it continued over the coming
weeks, the anxiety attacks would become less frequent and the dead stares into
corners more frequent if she didn’t take her meds regularly. Then it would be
trouble: another suicide attempt, or worse, a success. I loved Gabby. She was
like a sister to me, but sometimes I wished for a less burdensome friend.
“Fine,” I said. “One time, okay? You can find someone else in all
of Los Angeles to do it next time.”
Gabby nodded and tapped her thumb and middle finger together.
“It’s good,” she said. “It’ll be good, Monica. You’ll knock them out. You
will.” The words had a rote quality, like she said them just to fill space.
“I guess I need it too,” I said. “I got fired last night.”
“What did you do?”
“Spilled drinks in my boss’s lap.”
“That Freddie guy?”
“Jonathan Drazen.”
“Oh…” She put her hands to her mouth. “He also owns the R.O.Q.
Club in Santa Monica. So don’t try to work there, either.”
“Did you know he’s gorgeous?”
A voice came from behind me. “Talking about me again?” Darren had
shown up, God bless him.
“Jonathan Drazen fired her last night,” Gabby said.
“Who is that?” He sat down, placing his laptop on the table.
“He didn’t do it. Freddie did. Drazen just offered me a severance
and referred me to the Stock.”
“And apparently he’s gorgeous.” He raised an eyebrow at me. I
shrugged. Darren and I were over each other, but he’d rib me bloody at the
slightest sign of weakness. “I haven’t heard you talk like that about a guy in
a year and a half. I thought maybe you were still in love with me.” I must have
blushed, or my eyes might have given away some hidden spark of feeling, because
Darren snapped open his laptop. “Let’s see what
kinda
wifi
I can pick up.”
“I don’t talk like that about men because I prefer celibacy to
bullshit.”
Darren tapped away on his laptop. “Jonathan Drazen. Thirty-two.
Old man.” He looked at me over the screen.
“Do not underestimate how hot he is. I could barely talk.”
“Earned his money the old-fashioned way.”
“Rich daddy?”
“A long line of them. He makes more in interest than the entire
GDP of Burma.” Darren scrolled through some web page or another. He loved the
internet like most people loved puppies and babies. “Real estate magnate. His
dad was a drunk and lost a chunk of money. Our Jonathan the Third….” He drifted
off as he scrolled. “BA from Penn. MBA from Stanford. He brought the business
back.
Bazillionaire
. He’s a real catch if you can
tear him away from the four hundred other women he’s getting photographed
with.”
“
Lalala
. Don’t care.”
“Why? It’s not like you’ve had sex in….what?” Darren clicked
around, pretending he didn’t care about my answer, but I knew he did.
“Men are bad news,” I said. “They’re a distraction. They make
demands.”
“Not all men are Kevin.”
Kevin was my last boyfriend, the one whose control issues had
turned me off to men for eighteen months. “
Lalala
…not
talking about Kevin either.” I scraped the bottom of my ice cream cup.
Darren turned his laptop so I could see the screen. “This him?”
Jonathan Drazen stood between a woman and man I didn’t recognize.
I scrolled through the gossip page. His Irish good looks were undeniable next
to anyone, even movie stars.
“He
has
been
photographed with an awful lot of women,” I said.
“Yeah, he’s been a total fuck-around since his divorce, FYI. If
you wanted him, he’d probably be game. All I’m saying.” He crossed his legs and
looked out onto Sunset.
Gabby had a faraway look as she watched the cars. “His wife was
Jessica Carnes,” Gabby recited as if she was reading a newspaper in her head,
“the artist. Drazen married her at his father’s place on Venice Beach. She’s
half-sister to Thomas Deacon, the sports agent at APR, who has a baby with
Susan Kincaid, the hostess at the Key Club, whose brother plays basketball with
Eugene
Testarossa
. Our dream agent at WDE.”